


FIRE AND ICE

by griseldajane



Category: The Who
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-19
Updated: 2011-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:25:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/griseldajane/pseuds/griseldajane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger learns things the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIRE AND ICE

**Author's Note:**

> Pete/Roger if you squint.  
> Warnings: 1} So, I only seem to do hurt/comfort and angst fic... this is the first of several stories I have started on the h/c bandwagon. 2} I haven’t written any fanfic in over two years and I’ve never written Who-fic before... Consider this a warm up.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is FICTION! This never happened. No harm intended.

 

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Roger’s breath curled around him in the winter air as he stormed angrily from the studio.  The punch of the cold air matched the bang of the back door as it clamored shut behind him. Hands thrust into his jacket pockets, he jogged down the snow dusted steps rapidly, trying to outrun his rage.  

 

His mind was on the sharp-tongued guitarist and not on where he was stepping and suddenly the world tipped and there was sharp pain and then nothing.

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Roger opened his eyes to a white sky overhead. It was quiet, nothing but the sound of far off highway traffic and cold wind blowing collected snow from the rooftop.  Roger tried to sit up, but his head felt too heavy, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.  

 _Perfect_ , he thought with a mirthless laugh that sent sparks skyrocketing across his vision.  He lay still, watching as small flecks of snow fluttered down from above.  

Roger was tired.  It was exhausting work fighting for his place within the group, fighting for what he wanted, fighting Pete, fighting himself-- fighting _everybody_.  He just wanted to be a singer.  He wanted the Who to be the best band in the world.

Some days his contribution to the group was diminished, considered less important because he wasn't one of _them_ , wasn't considered a musician.  And some days it didn't matter, some days they were gloriously united. But this aloof sentiment that Roger was a mouthpiece and that’s all always lingered somewhere in the eyes of his bandmates.  Never was it more pronounced than on days when Pete decided it was so.  

And on this day Pete had determined that Roger was _just a singer_ and therefore his opinion was inconsequential to the music being made.  With a contemptuous air, Pete combated all his opinions and suggestions on the new material as if he were too obtuse to interpret it.  Roger wasn’t brilliant, he knew that.  But he certainly wasn’t stupid and to be treated as such lit his fuse.  

Roger had dug his heels in, knowing he was being stubborn, but there was no other way for him to express his hurt and frustration at Pete's whims.  What he truly couldn't understand was Pete's mercurial temperament.  Some days Pete was bright and receptive, bubbling with warmth and affability towards him, and other days he presented a steely facade, not only rejecting Roger, but also setting out to crush him where he stood.

It had always been Roger’s way to fight for what he wanted, at first with his fists and now he was learning to wield words.  But he would never be a match for Pete when it came to verbal sparring. The man could eviscerate with a single, well chosen word.  

Today, it was as if Pete wanted to goad him to come to blows. And if there was one thing that Roger had vowed never to do again, it was to raise an angry fist against any of his bandmates.  

Feeling that familiar rage boiling within as Pete mouthed off, Roger had glowered at him and left the studio to calm down.  And in a way he had, for there was no more fight left in him.  

Roger’s skin burned as the wind bit him, and coldness settled into his bones.  His eyes fell shut against the pangs and he let himself drift.

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Hands were on him, shaking his shoulder, burning his face.  Roger’s eyes opened lazily to find Pete hovering above him, his dark hair a stark contrast against the white world around him.

Roger blinked, trying to jump-start his frostbitten brain.  After a moment, he found focus on the electric blue eyes that were intent on him.

“Thank God, I’d thought you’d left us,” Pete said, his brows drawn together in a taught line.  Without a jacket and kneeling in the snow-covered parking lot, the lean guitarist shivered against the weather.  

“Didn’t go far,” Roger said, lips upturning slightly.  “As you can see.”  

The look on Pete’s face did not ease and Roger wondered exactly what expression it was contorting his features.  “I’ve been trying to rouse you for several minutes,” Pete groused, but the irritation in his voice fell flat.   “Can you sit up?”

“Yes,” Roger answered, though he wasn’t sure he could.  He had no idea how long he’d been lying there, but judging by the snow coating his body, it couldn't have been more than a half hour.  

An intense ache stabbed through his skull as Roger sat himself up too quickly, hissing a noise of discomforted pain through gritted teeth.  Before he could flop back down, Pete’s arms were around him, pulling Roger close.

“You goddamned stubborn fool,” Pete retorted into his damp curls.  His grip was unfaltering and complete, the expanse of his arms wrapped wholly around Roger.  “Imagine my surprise when I came out for a smoke and a bit of fresh air to find you sprawled at the bottom of the steps.”  Fingers dug into his shoulder, lips pressed against his ear.  “Such a bloody stupid sod.”

As his head lolled against Pete’s shoulder, Roger frowned. Pete’s words didn’t match his actions.  Here he was accosting him with epithets all while holding onto him for dear life.  His lips forming the harsh remarks were gentle against his skin.  

 _Pete’s... scared_ , Roger realized slowly.   _He’s worried about me._

With some uncertainty, Roger brought arms up, gently rubbing Pete’s back.  “Just proving what a thick head I got,” Roger said.

“Yes, well that you have,” Pete replied with an uneasy laugh.  “But try not to crack it up, yeah?”

His arms moved away and Pete held Roger at arms length, giving him a once over.  Under his keen gaze, Roger felt very much like a child under a parent’s scrutiny.  

“I’m okay,” Roger assured him, catching Pete’s eye.  “Really.”

“Look at you, you’re a mess,” Pete said at last.  “You’re all wet.  There’s snow in your hair.” He brushed his fingers through the blond locks, shaking a few flakes free before bringing his hand round to capture his chin. “And you’re bloody freezing.”

“Seems as if you’re suffering from the same afflictions, Pete,” Roger said with an amused smile.  

“Best get inside then,” Pete replied.  “But the next time you decide to take an impromptu swan dive, I’m going to leave you where you land.”

Smiling a little as Pete helped him to his feet, Roger felt a weight lifted from his chest.  He had figured something out about the quick-witted guitarist.  

Pete put his arm around Roger’s waist as they walked up the steps together, his body a warm presence flush against the singer’s side.  Pete made a great show of irritation at Roger’s sluggish pace, but the singer felt his strong grip and vigilant gaze as they crossed back over the icy steps.  Despite his grousing to the contrary, Pete wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Whatever Pete said to him-- well that wasn’t necessarily the important part.  What Roger had to remember was that Pete’s actions spoke volumes louder than his words did.  

Feeling Pete’s assertive but devoted touch at his side was enough to inform Roger of that.  

 _  
FIN_

 


End file.
